Brooks is speaking. “The truth is,” he says, his voice echoing through the high-end speakers, “integrity is a commodity we often undervalue in this room. We trade in futures. We trade in assets. But we rarely trade in truth.”
He scans the crowd. He looks wild, his tie loosened, his eyes dark with a reckless kind of grief.
“I made a deal,” he continues. “To secure this company. I thought it was the most important thing in the world. I thought the future of Taylor Enterprises was worth any price.”
He pauses, locking eyes with his father in the front row. “I was wrong.”
The crowd gasps. Brooks takes a breath, his chest heaving. He opens his mouth to burn it all down.
“Brooks!” I shout.
My voice rings out, cutting through the tension like a blade. He freezes. He squints against the blinding spotlight, his hands still white-knuckled on the mic stand.
“Ivy?”
I march down the center aisle. My boots thud against the carpet runner, a sharp, rhythmic contrast to the elegant silence. I am not wearing silk. I am wearing jeans, a leather jacket, and a look that says I will tackle him into a marble cherub again if he doesn’t shut up.
Brooks stares at me. The calculated anger drains out of his face, replaced by a shock so profound he nearly drops the microphone.
“You came back,” he says, his voice raw, as I reach the edge of the stage.
“Of course I came back,” I say, climbing the stairs with purpose. “You were about to do something impulsive. Again.”
I reach him, stepping right into his personal space, purposefully shielding him from the board’s view. I take the microphone from his hand, our fingers brushing, and the electric spark of him nearly knocks the wind out of me. I turn to the crowd and flash my best, brightest, most professionally fake smile.
“I am so sorry for the interruption,” I say smoothly, my voice projecting with a calm I don’t feel. “Traffic from the heliport was a nightmare. You know how it is on Labor Day.”
I look at Brooks. He’s looking at me like I’m the only thing left in the world. I take a breath and pick up exactly where he left off, twisting his words back into the safety of our lie.
“Brooks was talking about truth,” I say to the guests, my eyes locking onto his. “And the truth is… he loves me. Right, Brooks?”
The silence in the tent is absolute, a pressurized vacuum of three hundred people waiting for the hammer to fall. Brooks doesn't hesitate. He takes the mic from my hand, his eyes never leaving mine, his voice low and vibrating with a raw honesty that makes my knees weak.
“I do,” he says.
He doesn’t wait for applause. He doesn’t finish the speech. He simply lets go. He drops the microphone, the metal hitting the stage floor with a muffled, echoing thump that rings through the speakers, and pulls me into him. He kisses me right there, in the center of the spotlight, a raw and public declaration that effectively incinerates every “Old Money” rule he ever lived by.
The crowd exhales, a collective, captivated sound. I pull back an inch, my head spinning, and realize I still have a room to manage. I reach down and retrieve the microphone. I don’t give them time to think. I don’t give Penelope time to breathe. I turn back to the sea of faces, my grin feeling remarkably real.
“Now,” I say. “Who wants cake?”
The tension snaps. Penelope, looking like she’s been struck, turns on her heel and practically runs toward the back of the tent, throwing out a sharp comment about getting the first piece as a cover for her retreat.
Brooks’s hand finds mine, his fingers lacing with mine in a grip that says he’s never letting go.
“I’m a fixer, Brooks,” I whisper, off-mic, as the band kicks back into a lively jazz number. “I finish the job.”
“You came back,” he says, and the ice in his eyes is gone.
“Smile, Taylor,” I say quietly, pulling him toward the edge of the stage to greet the board members. “We have business to finish. Then you and I are going to have a very long talk.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
BROOKS
Ivy Sullivan is a marvel.
She doesn't arrive in the "Hamptons Camouflage" her partners assembled for her. She marches down the center aisle of the gala tent in a black leather jacket, dark denim, and boots that look like they've seen a war zone. A riot in a room full of statues. And when she takes the microphone from my trembling hand with a grip steadier than my own, she turns my public self-destruction into a love story the crowd can swallow.
